Full Exposure
by 1BadJoke
Summary: Definite AU. Good News, Bruce Wayne overcame his fear of guns. Bad News, half the Narrows is in the morgue. Dark!Bruce and Joker preslash. A look at if Batman didn't exist and fell on the otherside of the razor's edge.


_Prompt: AU. Instead of becoming Batman, Bruce becomes a criminal, with or without a costume. Maybe he succeeds in shooting Joe Chill, or maybe his travels to get insight into the criminal mind work a little too well (or some other scenario). He and the Joker end up as partners in crime. How things develop from there is up to you. Any rating._  
Warnings: Unsavory language, violence, plot-induced OOCness  
Disclaimer: All DC-related icons are not mine. In no way am I profiting from this.

A/N: Hopefully this doesn't come off as _American Psycho-_like_._

* * *

It truly was an accident when he first started.

He had tried the therapy route when Alfred had finally thrown up his hands -frustration etched deep into the lines of his face- and demanded his charge go talk to someone since he wasn't about to grant the old butler the courtesy, and that he wasn't about to happily continue to serve some _shut-in_. Bruce, furious at the time, broke a precious Ming vase and locked himself in his quarters for nearly a week when Alfred had asked what Bruce thought about the idea. Alfred should have understood how Bruce felt and why he stayed within the manor's grounds as much as possible. The murder of his parents had fucked him up royally, simple as that. Thoroughly and irrevocably. He loved Gotham -always willing to donate- but how could he trust it to not kill him at first chance for what he considered pocket change? No, it was easier to have been home schooled and went straight to the office and back on days when he **really** had to or the guilt of leaving all that responsibility to Lucius when the man was -how old? Well old enough to wear bowties and not look utterly foolish- overwhelmed him in bored gusts.

Once the week in isolation had passed of systematically creating an intricate mess out of spite for Alfred to clean up and late night sneaks to the kitchen only to discover Alfred conveniently had leftovers from nary a full dinner in the fridge, he wondered if perhaps he might have over-reacted to the whole therapy idea. Alfred only cared about what was best for him and merely wanted to see him happy, he knew that. He didn't scold Bruce when he was too shaken to return to school but helped the young boy choose the most compatible tutors and arranged his days in accordance to visits from his friends. The English gentleman didn't make a peep when Bruce caved into carnal desires at age sixteen (and so on ever since) and a half-naked body stumbled from his bed chambers with a handful of cash; even more so when said body frequently matched the anatomy of Bruce's own. With all that Alfred had tolerated of him, Bruce had decided he could tolerate a one hour talk a week with a licensed stranger.

In retrospect he probably wouldn't have gotten the idea if not for Clark. That was his therapist's name, "Just call me Clark," probably to forge that intimacy that wasn't there--- _or would it ever be_, Bruce had thought with a sneer when he took the plain, straight-backed chair instead of the squishy leather chaise offered to him. That first session consisted of the so called "General" information being gathered from Bruce's mind to _Clark's_ notes. The entire time, when the line of questions were so generic he could answer without a thought, he wondered how with all his money he ended up with this ginger beanstalk with the stuffy, failed at cozy office and his all around annoying presence. But Bruce would tolerate it. For Alfred.

He could remember the day that jumpstarted everything that followed.

Poor Clark had grown frustrated: All of his training in Psychology and Sociology and counseling to disable the arguments of patients didn't prepare him for the iron-willed logic of billionaire, Bruce Wayne.

"How come you don't venture outside much, Bruce?"  
"I do though. I get plenty of fresh air walking the grounds."  
"No, outside your property?"  
"From time to time."  
"Where?"  
"To work, mostly."  
"Do you go out for other reasons besides work?"  
"Occasionally."  
"Care to tell me what they are?"  
"No."  
"Oh, um… okay. Bruce, tell me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me that you don't do much besides work."  
"You're wrong."  
"How so?"  
"You asked me before what reason do I usually leave the manor, not what I do with most of my time. Work is only a small fraction of my time."  
"Well, what do you do with the rest?"  
"Must you know?"  
"In order to get to know you better so I can help you, yes."  
"Fine… from eleven PM to seven in the morning I sleep. Then exercise for two hours -an orientation of weightlifting, running, cardio, boxing, and… Tai Chi- shower, dress, eat breakfast, read the paper if I feel inclined to, attend to any business matters, eat lunch, miscellaneous till dinner, an evening walk around the grounds if the weather permits, shower, read something more enjoyable, and bed again."  
"That's um… pretty organized… sounds like it doesn't leave much room for social interactions."  
"There's Alfred, employees at work, and sometimes Rachel comes over."  
"Rachel? Is she a girlfriend?"  
"She's a friend that happens to be a girl."  
"Is there really no one else in your life?"  
"I have all that I need."  
"But what about… a more…. Intimate interaction."  
"That's what prostitutes are for."  
"I----- I don't understand."  
"What shall I explain to you?"  
"You're young, you're handsome, with more money than Bill Gates. You can't let what happened all those years ago rule the rest of your life. You need to face whatever you're afraid of."

At the time he vehemently denied any fear on his part, that he preferred the quiet, peaceful life he led. Clark was not to be confided in; he was a tool (in more ways than one) to pacify Alfred, because for some unsightly reason the old butler considered the raucous life of a playboy healthier than whatever calm existence Bruce lived in. But it was true -after he stormed out of the therapist's office and vowed to never return- Bruce had to face his fear, and his fear was that night his parents died. The memory of Joe Chill and that fucking gun.

And just like that, the answer came to him.

It took days to gather up the nerve. Every minute spent thinking on it and then forcing himself not to when a cold, lead weight clawed at his insides at pursuing the very notion. He had read up on fears; even phoning the head doctor of Arkham, a smooth-tenored Dr. Jonathan Crane that answered all of his questions in clipped, pointed sentences. A ten minute call worth a fifty thousand dollar donation to the low-budget asylum, but it had helped. The technique was called "Full Exposure" or something to that caliber. When he heard Crane mention it, the idea had caught fire in his brain. He didn't hear much after that; distractedly turning down the doctor's almost overzealous offer to assist Bruce himself. He sounded overtly disappointed when the billionaire had refused, now that Bruce thought back on it. Oh well.

Taking the tram was the easy part; it being so late at night and everyone in bed (including Alfred) so all was virtually deserted. The few rebellious teenagers and single mothers returning home from below minimum wage jobs he came across didn't cast him a second glance; Even one woman he was quite sure was his secretary. Being a recluse had its advantages. When the fluorescents flickered and the car rattled down the track instead of the smooth ride it had been, he knew he was entering the Narrows. He wouldn't go to the Opera House. That was stupid and painful and unnecessary. In his addled mind, the Narrows just made sense. Face the worst and fix himself faster. He repeated that sentiment to himself when the intercom droned "LeBaron and 21st" and the brakes locked and his stomach kept moving left in that perpetual forward pull. He had no choice but to step out -impassive on the surface- when the doors slid open to reveal buzzing yellow lights and a snoring bundle of rags on a far wall bench. That wouldn't deter him, not even the doors shutting behind him with a slice of cool air that grazed the back of his exposed neck and tingled down his spine and making him shiver, nor when the train trudged away and he never felt more alone in his life.

_This isn't so bad_, he concluded after minutes of walking, though he felt more like a child that had run away from home and then had no idea where to go, like the street names and signs didn't make sense anymore because of the fear of _ohmygodohmygod I'm actually_ _doing this _paralyzing his brain. Most in his social class (if he ever took the time to visit) would be proud to say they didn't know their way around the worst part of Gotham, that such knowledge would incriminate you some how. Bruce had the same problem but no such apprehension. Some acquired knowledge or hell even a map would have been much appreciated. So he figured if he stuck to the one street the rusted stairs of the railway platform opened up to, he wouldn't get lost. And judging by the frantic 360 degree checks whenever the smallest noise reached his pricked ears, the Narrows was a dark, rotting labyrinth. Industrial vapors snaked through the open spaces and muddled the stars and appeared to repel the moon to hover over a more pleasant area of the city. His brain was taking the ominous symbolism to dramatic heights.

Eyes barely seeing the stream of bricks and black slices of alleyways -was he walking too fast?- where rustles or terrible scratching or _oh fuck_ groans deepened the desolate silence and that couldn't possibly make sense----

Then there it was, under the huffing of his nostrils.

Torn thoughts -_Run! Run! Don't do this! You're fine. Calm the fuck down!_- they all seemed to be yelling at him.

Matching the scuffle of his shined leather shoes was another set of footsteps. His ears strained over his own stiff-legged gait and yes, there it was again, a more determined cadence than his own. Turn around--- don't turn around.  
Walk faster. They walked faster.

Sweat pooled at his hairline and drenched his collar. Pulse pumping. Lungs shrinking. The rare streetlamp up ahead, a blur in the stretch of black. Was he crying? The prickles of a stranger at his back. Was this what a panic attack felt like? Practically running at the same time? This was the Opera House all over again. Then he wanted to laugh hysterically because when he did slow down -unsure if there was anyone there at all since he couldn't hear much over his own hyperventilating and he was too big of a coward to just look- they bounded faster, closer, and this wasn't a damn cartoon where they matched his rhythm and a pair of feet tiptoed under a tin garbage can. HA!

_Just get to the light and somehow it'll all stop. Be better. Bad things and darkness are synonymous with each other, right? Reach the light and it will all be fine. _

He ran for it.

The air didn't feel any warmer; the ground any more smoother or less gritty; just… brighter. The Narrows looking so charred and empty under this faux safety. He had stumbled to a stop, breath held, though his chest constricted horribly under that day's business attire.

See? No one, there was no one--

_Click._

Shit. He knew that sound when he shouldn't. Then he wanted to just laugh and piss himself all over again.

"Hey pal." Cold metal prodded the back of his sweaty neck. "Now don't make this hard on yourself. You know what to do."

Of course Bruce did, though he couldn't make a move. His wallet was in the inside pocket of his coat.

After several beats, "C'mon, c'mon." The barrel pressed harder into his skin, bruising. "Fork up your money. Cash, credit cards."

Earnestly swallowing back bile counted as nodding, right?

"Now!" was shouted like a balloon popped in a quiet room. So loud the vibrations jerked his frame and surely the spittle was going to contaminate---

Looking back now, Bruce decided he couldn't seriously be blamed for what happened next. Any court of law would write it off as self defense. Really, the situation couldn't have been helped.

Thick, sausage fingers clamped down on his upper arm -wrenching him around- the gun's barrel dragging against his skin, taking his pulse.

He couldn't remember exactly what followed after that. The emerging edges of the Narrows had broken apart right before his eyes into thousands of wriggling black worms, their flexing skins slick with sepia glow. Rage locked hidden spreading the taste of wet burnt toast across his tongue. Ugly lines carved a vicious show of perfect teeth. Everything was moving so -_too_- fast.  
Suddenly fists were battering his sides._  
Not again. Not again_, pounding in his brain.  
His mother's voice shrieking a banshee's terror in his ears and his father---

**Bang.**

Then it all stopped: The worms swam away and left the dirty bricks and weather-washed graffiti. The overhead streetlight -that safe beacon- actually stung his watery eyes. Jutted before him on locked elbows and cutting into his hands held like a prayer, a tarnished, sticky object his eyes registered and his mind recognized but the word wouldn't come to the forefront for some psychological reason he knew better than to dwell on. But once he saw it, it toppled from his white knuckle clutches and fell to the pavement with a splatter--- _a_ _splatter?_ Oh he shouldn't have looked down.A diseased crimson in the weak light was everywhere: Filling the cracks and chips in the sidewalk- he jumped back before the stain crept to the soles of his shoes- and its seeping origin. The person didn't look real -the body did, all paling ruddy skin and wrinkled tatty clothes blotched with red ink and the relaxed pug face with a bulbous nose- but the humanity wasn't there.

Merely an inanimate object.

Panting, his disbelieving eyes studied the growing wet spot matting layers of cloth. The bullet must have hit the left side lung. He mindlessly ran his thumb over the small indent on the pad of his pointer finger.

_I did that._ Bruce didn't know him, had never seen him before.  
_That doesn't excuse what I…_ The abuse to his sides flared and the bruise purpling on the back of his beck ached. Ice neutralized his nausea, and the gruesome sight seemed to bother him less and less. Tentatively, he bent over and pinched up the revolver by its hammer. He held it eye level, minding the lazy drops, and frowned in contemplation. His fully blown pupils darted between that and its owner. It had a sleeker, blockier design; no doubt a newer model than what his nightmares clung to, though the specific name didn't interest him. They all did the same thing, right? More up-to-date though it was, the pistol showed obvious signs of use: Scratched and misted with grime.

For the longest time Bruce had been petrified of any and all firearms, but standing there over this random mugger -stiff and cooling in his warm blood's escape- on some unnamed corner in the ghetto at the dead of night -technically unalone- with the stench of trash and copper assaulting his nostrils while decidedly still shaking and cotton-mouthed, he came to the conclusion that a gun wasn't as scary when you're the one holding it. In fact, the light swell in his chest could possibly be elation.

Just beside the scrutiny of a particular fat drop of blood stretching from the barrel tip, faraway headlights swept his wandering eyes up into a tidy glare. He wasn't done here yet; he wasn't sure what all _this_ meant: Murder, first and foremost, though he could probably argue it. No, no, he had to -twin orbs drew closer- had to leave. He hastily shoved the slick revolver into his coat pocket and ran, stepping over the walrus of a mugger and trailing dark footprints in his wake. He only had to wait four minutes before the train picked him up.

He couldn't get to sleep that night even though his sore muscles wanted nothing more than to melt into the mattress, but his brain had other plans besides the tedious surrender of sleep. His dream content would have been quite obvious at this point. Guilt wasn't keeping him awake but curious horror and something very close to awe and that was more troubling than the former, more conventional emotion. Once he had snuck inside the manor and confident he had done so undetected, he had hidden the ruined shoes deep inside his walk-in closet and took a long, scolding shower--- the leisurely wash down from the Narrows' general stink opposed to the vigorous scrubbing of a rape victim. Clean and relaxed, he had approached his bed: Lying dead center like a flaking, russet bible sat the stranger's gun. A sharp pang rippled in his gut at the sight.

Even to this day he couldn't explain why he took the thing with him or why he felt the best cache for it was his father's old medical bag, tucking the sticky weapon amongst the cherished items, but it screamed appropriate in some convoluted way. He didn't have to explain it, _because this isn't going to happen again._

The following morning he forced himself up and taking breakfast with Alfred, though he had rather sleep the shame away more than anything else. He had done his best to hide the dark blotch on the back of his neck with distracting dark circles around his eyes and a trying grin that resembled more of a grimace. Nervous glances were aimed over the rim of his coffee cup, but the old butler only went about his duties like normal and treated Bruce as such, if not warmer since the billionaire ate heartily. Bruce had to choke down the delicious spread for two reasons: 1)If Alfred paid more attention to the task of keeping up with the diminishing food, then he didn't have the time to look at Bruce at just the impossibly right angle to see the eggplant bruises scattered down his sides under his t-shirt nor the small winces of pain twisting his expressions; and 2) Food simply tasted better, not the ash he expected to crumble on his pallet. He had killed someone; he didn't deserve the wonderful flavors being absorbed into his taste buds. He should be wallowing, in what he wasn't quite sure. In reality, this was like coming out of a hangover: The dulled shades and fuzzy edges and auto-pilot discontent clearing into sharp, vibrant images -a kaleidoscope where he wondered who the fuck slipped him acid because how else could life feel so much _better_ when he had so clumsily taken another's---

"Are you alright, Master Bruce?" Paranoia lurched in his stomach at that polite, inquisitive tone. Alfred casually pouring him more coffee -not even looking at him- and he normally wouldn't have cared if Bruce had nothing to hide.

But. He did.

"Why do you ask?" He turned it around with a forced, distracted air, flipping to the next page of the newspaper -rattling slightly in his hold- and frantically scanning the headlines for any reported murders last night and the reclusive billionaire that perpetrated them.

"Oh nothing negative, I assure you." When Bruce found nothing implicating of the sort, he dredged up the courage to look at his companion. "Quite the opposite in fact." The older man was actually grinning. The last time Bruce had seen that was when he was fifteen and bravely decided to attend a friend's birthday at an arcade. Little did Bruce know before arriving, the evening would mostly consist of laser tag. Bruce remembered how quickly that grin had dissolved into a terse line when no sooner had Alfred pulled out of the parking lot, he was receiving a desperate phone call to come back and pick up a hysterical Bruce cowering from a plastic gun being pointed in his face. Bruce had seen nothing but cheap imitations of that grin ever since.

That morning with Alfred grinning at him like a proud father, probably thinking Bruce's sessions with _Clark_ were working but would probably drop dead in disgust if he knew what actually helped, laid rest the rancid guilt bubbling up in his throat.

All those early pre-dawn hours spent tossing and turning at the thought he was no better than Chill -if not lower because Bruce, of all people, should know better- were nothing but a waste. Hell, Bruce, _of all people_, deserved to have this -whatever it was- didn't he? That mugger last night had to be stopped, opposed to Thomas and Martha Wayne whose only crime was they loved Gotham and trusted those in it too much--- and weren't they owed the vengeance that soothed an edge of the raging hurt in Bruce's core like a cooling balm?

_Yes_, Bruce had conceded, stabbing his eggs with more gusto than necessary. He returned Alfred's grin with a tight smile.

"Whatever it is, Master Bruce, I hope you keep with it."

Maybe sometimes…. Happiness meant a little more than the morality of tainted blood spilled.

**Bang. Bang.**

He had stopped jumping at the sound. Scary the things one could get used to, but his barely there twitch at the thunderclap only filled him with a smug sense of pride.

The blood though had stopped bothering him ages ago; it merely fascinated him now: Crimson gushing from the flesh, soaking layers of clothes, spattering the grimy sidewalk; sometimes a bright red under the streetlamps, other times a slippery black in the alleys, the corpses chose what shade to greet his enlarged pupils with. When he was feeling particularly curious and nasty, he'd use the gun's barrel to maneuver the wet material just so he could see the dripping wound. The warm broth running steadily from a clean hole never failed to excite him those few seconds he indulged and lingered; always reminding him of a sprung leak, a deterioration under the skin that was bound to happen and he was the oh so good Samaritan that was kind enough to come along and relieve the pressure---

He had to start being careful with the way his thoughts were heading. Gotham didn't really need a once shut-in billionaire come gun-wielding murderer **and** with a God-complex to top it all off. Something about such an insanity seemed infinitely sad; and besides what he was doing wasn't insanity-based anyway. It was a logical solution to a logical problem. Exit wound bullets igniting bloody fireworks in frigid twilight was more therapeutic than telling Campfire Clark how he _felt_. This, this made him feel freaking fantastic.

Seven weeks had passed of sneaking out and daytime naps to catch up.  
Seven weeks of nicked ammo from his great uncle's once upon a time locked gun collection and Alfred not knowing any the wiser.  
Seven weeks of nameless faces and social dysfunction coming together in the most fulfilling way.  
Each time it happened -the Italian thug outside the Vietnamese restaurant, the mugger near the adult bookstore, the teenage gang bangers threatening him by the bridge, etc.- after each time he told himself was the last. It had to be. Not for his conscience's sake (he'd never slept better) but it was only a matter of time before GCPD caught on and if not them, someone else.  
Every day was expectant glances at the phone or awkward tiptoeing around the manor's front doors as if he came close enough, Jim Gordon would start knocking on the other side and wanting to ask Bruce some questions. But… nothing yet and that's why at the end of another tedious day and much pacing like a caged animal, he was pulling on jeans and a hoodie and slipping out well after midnight.

His aim had gotten better. _Practice makes_---well… he should probably keep to thinking in terms of recovery instead of recreation. One body, one bullet a night. That was always enough; it had to be. He used to let them come to him: The thieves and goons and general assholes, each trying to take something from him (namely money) or hurt him somehow. And that's what made it okay in his mind, self defense and all that rot. Then again every pulled trigger was essentially earned, despite the ever increasing few who intentionally did him no harm. It changed with the homeless old man that was so desperate for food to have snatched wildly at Bruce's pants, hoping to grab wallet. At first Bruce was mortified: It had been too easy, almost reflexive in its natural certainty to plant a slug in his filthy gut. A monster out of control. But when his mind grazed the notion of ending this -_no more power; no more release_- a rolling acid bared down on his insides and he vehemently shook his head. No. No. No. What was he to think when some dirty, toothless maniac lunged at him from the gutter? If anything Bruce did **him** a favor.

Bang.

Iron sprang against the cheap perfume already dancing in the air. A steady stream of scarlet running from a clean shot to the temple and dying frizzy platinum locks. He'd said No, but the whore would have none of it. All bones and sagging rouge cheeks. She shouldn't have latched onto his wrist, glaring turquoise acrylic nails digging. He stooped over her scantily clad form, pocketing the cause of death. Misty gray eyes still dead looking but clear now, staring blankly up at him. Puffy hot pink lips, cracked in some places, hung open in an awkward, lopsided "O."

For a fleeting second, Bruce wondered what her name was -not Candy or Sabrina or something obviously fake like that- but it was only a fleeting second.

"Impressive." He whipped around, heart slamming in his chest. Shit, the gun got caught -ripping the pocket's fabric to just get out again- and he fired blindly. When his eyes focused, his head cocked to the side. Confusion marred his eyebrows and disfigured his mouth. _What in the…_

There, clutching his thigh and clad neck to ankle in purple, stood a clown.  
Honestly, a fucking clown.

Greasy green tendrils hung in a down turned white face, black splashed eyes squeezed shut in concentration and red lips uttering a litany of curses Bruce had never heard before in between erratic breathy chuckles. Bruce, though shocked at the presence of a circus freak in the Narrows -a beacon of color in a drab backdrop- was surprised the man was still standing if the blood seeping through purple leather fingers and dribbling down to a pinstripe knee was anything to go by. Always shooting to kill makes one forget that gunshots must really fucking _hurt_.

Shock value diminishing into a more manageable curiosity, he cocked the gun again. He couldn't leave any witnesses.

"Cute," the man hissed, having gathered himself at a dizzying rate after hearing that telltale click. He stood taller though with hunched shoulders, wounded thigh twitching but ignored. "Want to put down your er little _toy_?" His pointing finger attached to a rolling wrist, flicked off towards elsewhere.

_Shoot him. __**Shoot**__ him. Shoot __**him!**_

Bewildered and more confused than he'd ever dare to admit, he held a tentative aim that would hit the deranged clown square in the heart if Bruce so chose but instead he watched warily, as said plum-draped stranger moved forward with nary a wince and slinked close enough that his lapel brushed the barrel's mouth.

"I know you're not deaf," he started, voice deadly low and calm. Eyes dead set. "Put it away and the less I'll want to drive a number two pencil through your eye, _kay_?" Bruce was hypnotized by the tongue flicking out on every other word. "… trust me on that, Brucey."

Alarm bells rang shrill and cracked at his inward surge of panic. His eyes widened a fraction, taking in those _scars_ curling hideously into a knowing grin. The slightest possibility that this man -this freak- with a gun pointed at his chest -dressed like _that_- with a grin that put the Cheshire to shame and all at Bruce's expense--- no. Indignant rage wasn't the right name for it, but it came pretty damn close.

Squeezing the handle tighter, he reset his tense jaw and glared. "Tell me how you know who I am and, just for kicks, why I shouldn't shoot you before asking why you're dressed so ridiculously." That last bit was a petty add-on he couldn't help but indulge and the clown knew it judging by his grin splitting into a show of smoke-stained teeth. Right then the armed billionaire resolved to shoot him regardless once the other man answered his questions.

"**Well**…" The clown made a big show of looking to his left and right and up and down the deserted street. Satisfied, he leaned in -smirking at the hard dig Bruce pressed in warning- and said with an oily tenor, "It's not like you're being very, uh, _discre__**te**_. As for your ah second question..." Dark eyes rolled upward in thought but darted imperceptibly to the side. He eased forward on the balls of his feet, painted face closer and gentler. With a click of his tongue, he looked back steadily into Bruce's furrowed stared. "You won't."

"Wha--" The rest rushed out in a pained gasp and he doubled over, arm wrapped around his middle. He looked up in time through teary eyes as the clown swiftly took the gun from him and, with a jerk, shook the bullets out their chamber. Bruce followed their descent in shock, their rain echoing his ears as they clattered to the ground.

Tutting with a pitying expression, the clown tossed the weapon. "Right--" He hauled Bruce up by the collar with a surprising show of strength for the wiry man and slammed the taller brunet against the nearest wall of crumbling brick. White spots burst inside Bruce's vision, and the little regained oxygen was torn from his lungs. Body flush against Bruce's, one arm effectively pinned his collar bone and the other bent between them. A cool leather palm cupped a reddened, high-cut cheek, fingers prodding the flesh. "Now **you** tell **me** why I shouldn't just slit your throat and leave you to be found in a **really** compromising position with your gangly, blue whore over there. And hey just for kicks, you're gonna look me in the eye while ya do it instead of staring at that useless hunk of metal like a kid without a security blanket to drool on. So yeah, look at me."

Stomach throbbing and still a tad dazed, he dragged his gaze away from his crutch glinting sadly beside the curb. Bruce then realized he was thoroughly fucked. He imagined he must look fairly pathetic -not used to taking a hit- with glistening eyes, blotchy cheeks, and looking for all the world his parents died again.

"What, now you're not going to talk to me? And here I thought these little nightly excursions were to work on your _social skills_." The clown pouted, Bruce had seen from the corner of his eye. He was determined to train his focus on the white earlobe peeking out from layers of moss strands. Bruce could just barely make out an unused piercing. Unexpectedly hot air caressed his own ear, rhythmic puffs he had to suppress a shiver over. "… how many bodies has it been, Brucey? Forty? _Fifty_? 'Guns are neat little things, aren't they? They can kill extraordinary people with very little effort.' [1] That is---- until ya run out of ammo, then where will you be--- oh wait, here we are!" Bruce's eyes slipped closed at the sharp cackle scraping his eardrum. His nostrils flared at the rancid gusts. "Y'see guns are-- are easy: Load, pull, bang. No artistry in it. Just… cover fire. But with knives--" _Snick._ Smooth ice traced the curve of his jaw, and Bruce shivered at the feel. "Knives can be anything you want."

Bruce snapped his eyes open at the husky edge in the other's nasally voice. Dead irises -black and flat like a shark's- had taken on a new light, following the blade's descent down Bruce's throat -Adams apple bobbing- and up again, scratch scratch scratching at stubble. Bruce trembled underneath the touch, hating his disposition, but stubbornly keeping his chin up. The gnarled curves of vermilion attracted his attention like an unfair magnet. "A knife could give you _these_…" That swiping tongue flickered at the corner of those slack, night crawler red lips before disappearing to push at those scars from the inside. Bruce's stuttered breathing caught, mouth drying up. The irrational desire to be the one prodding at that furrowed flesh himself, tasting this mangled clown that smelled of gasoline and cheap cologne, reminded him how long it's been since he'd gotten off.

"What do you want from me?" he spat, tugging from the other's grip with little success. A half-hearted attempt to distract himself from the unwanted stirring in his groin.

"I've been watching you, y'know---- oops, no, of course you don't... because you've been sloppy, but that in itself has its own shining qualities so I forgive you." Black eyes met brown briefly before resettling on the silver edge stroking a twitching jugular, a wistful expression on the clown's face. "That first night, I was there, when ya kinda lost your head." The corner of his mouth quirked, and for the first time in this conversation Bruce entertained the thought that this freak might even be human. "I thought some fancy suit slumming it couldn't find hooker street. I was going to kill you. I was close enough. But then _No, no, bang! _Borderline travesty--"

"You don't know** anything** about that." Bruce surprised himself, having literally growled unbidden through bared teeth.

The clown looked up through paint-matted lashes, one black pit arching sharply. A yellow crooked smile crept up one ragged cheek. "I don't?" The knife's pressure increased, simply pressing into his skin. "I know both of us are trying to find meaning in a meaningless world. Why be a disfigured outcast when I can be a notorious crime god? Why be an orphaned boy when you can be an executioner? [2]"

At the look of dawning horror on the brunet's face, the clown's head cocked to the side as if the shift in angle made Bruce's arrogance that much more endearing. "You didn't think I'd know that... See this is where that sloppiness I mentioned comes to play. Anyone could have seen you. Anyone could've followed you home. Sometimes living like a hermit isn't enough. You're lucky Gordon and his little squad haven't caught on to your, ah, extracurricular activities."

Heat bubbled to the surface of his cheeks. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. As much as he hated to admit, the circus freak was right: The only reason Bruce hadn't been caught was out of sheer, dumb luck. Looking at that triumphant smirk only proved the clown knew that just now Bruce realized this. A steady throb started to blossom behind his left eye. Perfect teeth grinding. The clown merely prattled away, cooing and taunting, oblivious to his audience's growing agitation, or better yet he did and reveled in the effect.

"Oh now don't make that face. Doesn't become you." The pinning arm moved just so that he was able to tap Bruce's nose like a misbehaving dog. If that knife wasn't pressed so warningly against his jugular, Bruce would have snapped already, all fists and snarls and snapping teeth. Bruce straightened like a zap to his spine when a round face nuzzled his neck, smearing paint and clogging pores. "…I wonder what mummy and daddy would have to say about their sad, little prince off gunning down trash in the ghetto, probably in honor of their memory, right?" Whispered chuckles that tickled his skin. "'That it's not your fault, Son'? 'It's okay, you're only a _victim_'?" This was accented by a sharp nip to the sensitive patch of skin below his ear. Bruce's upper lip twitched into the slightest of sneers.

Then the clown was howling, head thrown back and tearing away from the stone-faced billionaire's thumb digging harshly into the still weeping bullet wound in his purple-wrapped thigh. Bruce couldn't help it: A lurid grin tugged incessantly at his thin, pursed lips that he fought to suppress -he was furious a second ago- but with every pained whimper and desperate jerk the clown made the surging wet heat around the digit seeped to the rest of his body. It felt good, warm.

Sick. This was sick.

His neck tickled with the haphazard slash to it from the other's hasty retreat, red staining Bruce's collar. With a vicious twist he was sure enabled his thumbnail to catch on frayed skin, he extracted himself, thumb tip a brilliantly shining crimson. Momentarily entranced by the sight, he vaguely wondered why the clown hadn't simply pushed his hand away. He raised his eyes from his loose fist to be met with a warmer than the blood cooling on his thumb, genuine smile. A lot of the make up had rubbed off -probably on Bruce's neck- and perspiration melted white and black rivulets, revealing clear sallow skin.

"About time," the clown declared fondly, if a tad bit strained. If Bruce looked more closely at the purple/green edges, he could discern the smallest of shakes. His drenched thigh twitching and flexing. "I was starting to get bored."

Bruce's lips twisted into an ugly scowl, disgusted at the tender glint in those twinkling shark's eyes. He opened his mouth to spit something venomous; he didn't know what, probably a stab at those horrendous scars and if the clown didn't have them he'd actually be quite handsome and Bruce would consider buying him for the night--- or maybe he should be grateful the green-haired man took that opportunity away from him by continuing on.

He didn't say anything though, merely seeming he was about to: Tongue clicking an irritating staccato against the roof of his mouth and an appraising expression on his smeared face. The knife had disappeared elsewhere. Bruce considered it odd how the clown thought he could take Bruce on physically if need be or he trusted the seething billionaire to not attack him. The former was laughable and the latter was just plain stupid.

"I think…" he murmured, tapping his chin and tongue still clicking till it all stopped abruptly and he stilled. "I **know** I'm going to keep you."

"What?" Bruce replied dumbly.

"Keep you. With a little training you could be…" He didn't finish the thought, only shivered.

Thankfully before Bruce could childishly ask what- what could he be, he was growling and pushing off the wall. "The fuck do you mean _keep me_? Who the fuck do you--"

"Ah-ah-ah," the clown soothed, palms held open in a placating gesture. Bruce hated how the angrier he became, the more pleased the other man was. One moment the clown's right hand was empty and the next, with a jerk of his wrist, the recognizable red and white design of a playing card appeared. Wearing a smug grin, he gracefully maneuvered the card between his gloved fingers and offered it face up for Bruce to take. Bruce eyed the glossy drawing of a jester balancing precariously on one belled foot atop an over-sized hornet, and scribbled at the bottom in blue ink was what had to be a phone number.

"A Joker card?" Bruce smirked with a raised brow, crossing his arms and leaving the card held between them.

The clown didn't even bat an eye, most likely used to this reaction--_used to people thinking he was crazy and he probably is_, Bruce thought dryly. _Then again he's dressed as a well-tailored clown._

"Why don't you give me a call when you're tired of hunting street rats," red lips simpered as he tucked the pseudo-business card into the other's sweatshirt pocket.

"I don't understand."

"Ya know how Misery loves company? Well, think of Madness as the most popular kid in high school--"

"But I'm not--"

"And Denial is the nerdy friend he couldn't quite shake from Junior high." The clown flashed him a rueful grin. "I'm sure you'd like some tips, too. Like where to shoot at a head so that it will explode or, uh---" Black eyes roved over Bruce's form and the most alarming predatory smile emerged amongst the slashes of red. "_Other_ things."

"But for what purpose?" Bruce was genuinely curious if not frustrated with the lack of answer, though he wouldn't mind learning how to trigger skull combustion. Yet the clown only smiled and shook his head as if Bruce was a child wanting to understand something that, for now, was beyond his comprehension. Too pointless to try and explain.

"Night, Brucey." He turned on his heel and sidestepped the forgotten prostitute's corpse.

Frowning, Bruce felt for the card in his pocket -yep, still there, still real- and slowly shuffled over to where his gun lay. He was surprised how this stranger provoked such rollercoaster emotions from him. Suddenly he remembered something that had been nagging at him earlier in what he guessed passed as a conversation. "… er, um… Joker?" he ventured carefully, hating to call down the empty street.

The clown stopped and peered over his broad shoulder.

Bruce paused to wet his lips. "You said you've been watching me, so----why now?"

The scarred man turned to face him, hopefully thinking that maybe he could grace Bruce with a straight answer. "I've got some ideas for this city, and things are going to change. Forever. You can either be with me or against the natural, ah, _disorder_ of things. And I would hate to have to kill you, Brucey... That satisfy for now?"

Screaming in his head that _no, it didn't _but still very aware of the death threat looming quite explicitly, he bit the inside of his unmarred cheek and nodded.

Being the only one satisfied, the clown smiled, winked and was off, strolling down the street with a minor hitch in his gait and then disappearing round a corner.

The billionaire didn't really know what to make of what just happened. With a blank expression, he quickly gathered the scattered bullets and tucked them into his jean pocket, the gun in his waistband. Half-lidded eyes swept up and down the dimly lit street. Amazing how no one ever seemed to be out and around anymore, but something akin to logic reasoned that he had already sent most of the Narrows' nighttime scavengers to the Gotham Morgue.

_Was there really no one left?_

The realization had his knees locking and breath short. He crumpled to the sidewalk: Broken glass biting into his palms and cold blood clinging to his sleeve. He had propped himself on top the sloping curb and then stared at his soiled hands for the longest time. The far off train wailing too loudly in his ears.

This really had started as an accident.  
Almost a therapeutic chain of events. [3]

* * *

[1] Quote by John W. Hinckley Jr.  
[2] Altered line from Batman 663  
[3] Altered lyric from "Camisado" by Panic at the Disco


End file.
